


doll boy, doll heart

by valleyofmidnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bugs & Insects, Eating Disorders, Extremely Dubious Consent, Grooming, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Season/Series 01, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, Slight feminization, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Thoughts, Weecest, spit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25807591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyofmidnight/pseuds/valleyofmidnight
Summary: Dean shows you porn for the first time when you’re eleven years old.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 94





	doll boy, doll heart

Dean shows you porn for the first time when you’re eleven years old. Brightly lit, one man, one woman, one camera. And you sit there and watch the woman who has a type of body you’ve never seen before (dramatic curves, prop mouth), and the man with a cock that looks nothing like yours, and you think  _ this is what everyone makes such a fuss about _ . Boys in your class fumbling over curses, whispering about girls and women like they know what it means to fuck one. Talking about their dad’s porn that they steal from under his bed. Talking about the one time they saw a nip slip on TV.

You would never have to steal, at least, never have to live on scraps. Dean gives you everything before you ever have to ask. He’s sixteen and knows so much more about  _ everything _ than you do. He knows how to lift porno magazines from their plastic without leaving behind a fingerprint, he knows the name of the actress, other videos she’s been in, says he’ll show them to you if you stay good and quiet. So you nod, and you keep your eyes on him as he gets off the bed and stands in front of you. 

He slips a hand into your hair, tilts your head back. Presses a finger to your bottom lip, sneaks it into your mouth. He tastes sticky and warm-- He tastes like the air after rain, like summer heatwaves. Your eyes close, and you wonder if there’s any feeling that could match this. You wonder if you’ll ever find this sort of close, intimate ecstasy in women’s breasts, or between sticky thighs, or if Dean will be it for you-- If a life on the road, with your brother’s fingers down your throat, will be all your life ends up being. 

Dean holds your chin, tells you to breathe, to  _ focus _ on breathing as his fingers hit the back of your throat-- And you have to guess that boys your age don’t know things like this, don’t know the feeling of gagging on fingers, of looking up at their brother with tears in their eyes, doing their best to keep quiet, stay good. 

You and Dean have always been close enough to warrant looks from other kids anyway. You lean on Dean’s shoulder outside the school building, sitting on a curb and waiting for your dad to pick you up, and someone asks where y’all are from, and you say nowhere. And that same someone asks if people have sex with their brothers in Nowhere. He walks away laughing some ugly laugh, fingers around his backpack straps-- And you know a million ways to snap his bones into dust, but Dean is beautiful in the sun, unparalleled in his beauty, so you look at him instead. He tells you not to worry about what kids say.

And you guess this is sex, Dean seeing how far he can go before you gag (and it’s an awful feeling, gagging; like a body rejecting). You cling to his shirt, drool pouring out of your mouth like honey. Drool pouring out of your mouth and into his hand. He licks his own fingers clean. He says this is just to get you used to the feeling, that he doesn’t expect you to know how to do this well yet (and you’re not quite sure what he’s talking about). He says you’ll practice every day Dad’s gone. He doesn’t have to tell you to keep it all a secret. You don’t want anyone to ruin it. 

He runs a bath for you afterwards, scalding hot. You watch the shitty motel tap leak and drip into the tub no matter how hard Dean tries to shut it off.

Nothing feels quite real, every sensation feels like it's coming from miles away, but, despite that, it's not scary. You don't feel out of touch. You feel warm, safe. You feel like you've unlocked some kinda emotion no one knows about-- And you feel grateful that Dean showed you. Grateful for your brother sticking his fingers down your throat, running you a bath. Grateful he keeps doing it. 

When Dad's been gone a couple days, and Dean starts getting antsy about when he's gonna come back, he crawls into your bed and kisses you like you're the sweetest thing in the world, like just tasting you is a gift from God. It starts how it always does, his fingers in your mouth, but he teaches you something new each time he slips under your covers, some new way to turn your wrist, arch your back, move your tongue. He's so gentle when he guides you, a soft hand on your cheek with all the sweetness of dew.

And afterwards, when you're both drifting into half-dreams, you can't dream about anyone other than Dean. You two lay across from each other, legs intertwined, and you stare at the way his eyes shine in the dark, the way his eyelashes fall against the pillow. It's just the two of you, all alone in the world. And that's all you need.

\--

At twelve years old, a classmate says he got a hummer from a woman down the street. No one believes him. No one really knows what a hummer is, but they know men are supposed to get them and women are supposed to give them. And they involve lips, and spit, and a girl, which you were all supposed to want. 

The teacher overhears and sends your classmate to the principal's office. The parents kick up a fuss. Your dad laughs it off, says that’s not the worst thing you’ve heard and it’s not the worst thing you’ll hear. He looks you in the eye, breath smelling like tap beer. He says  _ Sammy. Don’t let anyone get under your skin. _

You’ve already failed that. Dean looks over you, full of guilt.

You find porn magazines under one of the beds. Girls with men’s hands around their thin, pale throats, mouths open in a perfect  _ o, _ lips glossy and full. Your lips are doll-pink, but so thin in comparison, and your face is blotchy compared to the perfectly applied blush. You think about wearing makeup. You think about ripping your skin apart and offering the pieces to Dean as an apology. 

They also feel smaller than your twelve-year-old body. Maybe it's the curve of their waist, or maybe the men are just so much bigger than Dean, but you want to look and feel just as small. You want your ribs showing. You want Dean to be able to wrap his fingers around your waist.

You put the magazines back. You watch the mosquitoes bounce off the motel window. 

Later that night, you pull Dean’s hands up to your neck, and his long, beautiful fingers wrap around your throat and you wanna  _ beg. _ God, you want him to pull you apart himself, rearrange all the pieces and swallow them whole. He’s seventeen now and seems to know everything about the world, about sex. He says he wants to tie you up, keep you on your knees for days. 

He says he wants you to be his perfect doll, following his every order. So when he asks you to stick your own fingers up your ass, his voice lacking his usual gentleness, you do so. When he asks you to keep them there as he slides his cock alongside them, you do so. And when he squeezes your neck (and you can’t breathe, and you’re sure your head is about to pop off your neck, and you  _ can’t fucking breathe _ ), you don’t mind. He tells you how small you look, and you're somewhere so elsewhere that you can believe him.

\--

You’re thirteen and your dad is looking at you different. He walks into the motel like he’s been spat out of Hell’s mouth-- dirty, and bloody, ugly. And you wonder how someone so far gone could have created the prettiest thing you know (the girls pale in comparison, and have never excited you how Dean does; you put that more on Dean than you do yourself). And you wonder why you’re always the one sewing ugly wounds closed.

Your dad says, through his bloody teeth, that you and Dean are awfully close. You do your best to not laugh right in his face. You think of Dean’s cock in your mouth not half an hour before. You think about coming into his hand, a sobbing cry of a moan. You’ve gotten good at taking him whenever he asks, even when you're tired, or sick, or wishing to disappear, gotten good at being just as skilled a doll as the porn-crafted ones.

John Winchester, American blood and revenge, could’ve never planned for his youngest son being a whore for his brother’s cock, could've never planned for  _ you. _ Begging, crying, whining you.

Dad passes out on the stiff motel bed, too tired to ask any more questions about  _ you and Dean,  _ like he knows anything about what happens between you and Dean.

You lay your head in Dean’s lap while some black-and-white western plays on the satellite TV a room away from your dad. The couch is uncomfortable, but Dean has his hands in your hair, and your dad’s eyes are closed so he can’t say shit about it. You could stay right here for hours, fall asleep to Dean making comments about the movie, Dean brushing your hair out of your face, Dean asking if Dad’s okay. And he's so genuine in asking it's hard to reconcile the memories of him looking down at you, your hair in his fist, his cock down your throat. It's hard to imagine Dean as anything other than a pretty, kind boy. 

Dad will always be fine. And you will always be fine. 

You slip somewhere between sleep and wake, and you feel almost like you're floating. And you can feel Dean's hands on you, but you don't pay them any mind. It's well-established by now that Dean can touch you whenever he wants and you'll like it, and you will stay quiet about it, and he'll run you a bath, and you'll watch the shitty motel tap leak and drip into the tub no matter how hard Dean tries to shut it off. He'll dry your hair with a towel that smells vaguely like vinegar. And it won't matter if this is happening  _ now _ or if it's a memory from last year. Because it's all the same. You'll do anything for him, from now until forever. 

And when he asks you to get on your knees, even though the bathroom tile digs into your skin, you do it. You feel unclean, and no water can wash you clean again, but you feel perfected with your lips wrapped around Dean’s cock, so it doesn’t matter if you’re clean. It doesn’t matter if you’re virgin-white and innocent instead of dirtied up and ruined. It doesn’t matter that Dean’s the one who ruined you. 

You close your eyes, feel the weight of Dean, imagine him as water. Imagine this as a baptism under the moonlight the window is letting in. You feel ageless, forever small enough to fit perfectly against Dean, forever rose-pink and pretty. And you guess this is love, because it has to be. Dean has always been and always will be the object of all your affection-- And that means love according to every movie you've ever watched.

You ask him later that night, voice quiet, lips wet.  _ Do you love me?  _ The air seems to wrap around the words themselves, choke all the life out of them. You cover your ears before he can respond. 

\--

Dean fucks you into the hotel mattress the day after your fifteenth birthday. He says you’ve really grown up, runs his hands over the disgusting hair under your arms, holds your bony hips, pulls your hair which now extends past your pierced ears (you got them pierced yesterday at a fucking Claire’s, bought little flower stud earrings you’ll have to hide in your fists whenever your dad is around; and Dean fucking loves them, says he wanted to get you pink ones, says he wanted to dress you up and ruin you). You think about shaving. 

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, your stomach digging into the edge of the bed, moves his cock inside you. You’ll never have enough of him, not until he’s completely wrapped up inside you, not until you two are melted together, until he’s sick of you and your dirt. It’s been a long time since he first stuck his fingers down your throat-- Your spit is no longer nectar, but bile. Your body no longer holds any illusion of being washed clean.

You’re still thin, thank god, and at the right angle, your waist slopes up like a girl’s. With your face pressed into the sheets, your legs long, your ass up-- You  _ feel _ like a girl. You feel like those girls Dean is always bringing around, the girls you hate but will always have some piece of Dean left in them. And Dean fucks you just as rough as men in porn fuck women. The ever-present clawing in your chest relaxes.

Dean falls asleep, and the moonlight looks so heavenly on his skin. He looks like a normal boy. If you zone out hard enough, you can pretend he’s a stranger, and this is a one-night-stand, and you’ll never see him again.

You start taking bugs apart in the middle of the night, once Dean’s fallen asleep. You tear their little limbs away from their body and watch them struggle silently, try and get inside their little heads. You can’t piece together why it appeals to you the way it does. You won’t be able to put the pieces together for years. You make little graves for the little bodies. Wish upon the dirt for something more than this. You don’t want to be torn apart and buried. You want to live.  _ Please let me live. _

Your dad misses your birthday and neither you nor Dean bring it up when you see him next. You drive to a new motel, a new landscape that looks the same as the rest of them, and it’s something you won’t feel angry about for years. All you can feel right now is the stabbing in your palm from your flower earrings. All you can feel right now is a nagging in your chest whenever you look at Dean, a silent begging. You’re not sure what it’s for.

\--

You’ve just turned sixteen and the school counselor's calling you into her office. She sits you down in a stiff chair and says students have noticed cuts on your arms, bruises on your side. She just wants to make sure everything is okay at home. You don’t know how to tell her that the anger has finally caught up with you. You don’t know how to tell her that all of her words sound hollow. She suggests going to a therapist.

_ You’re not alone, you’d be missed. _

She misses the point. You don’t wanna be remembered. You wish you were alone. You wish you weren’t so terribly attached to Dean and all his charm, chained to the spots where your spit meets his skin. You don’t hate him (it would be easier if you did), you just wish you could exist without him. You wish you could breathe without him. 

She asks you when you started hurting yourself and you can’t remember. Somewhere between wide-eyed childhood and pubescent teenhood. Somewhere between Dean being your older brother and your only friend. Somewhere between whispers and silence. 

She asks about your dad. You stare at the corner of the ceiling until she stops asking. Dean would be able to get through to you, you think. Dean always finds ways to make you talk. By comparison, everyone else is easy to hide from. Your lips stay sealed. She sends you back to class with a sigh and a sad look in her eye. You think about cutting them out of her sockets, carrying them with you. 

You don’t hate Dean (you hate the thought of hating Dean). You  _ love _ Dean, and you love all the ways he offers himself to you, all the ways he fits inside you. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anything, more than you  _ could _ ever love anything. 

You hide in the bathroom for the rest of the day, sitting in the handicapped stall with the door locked, running your fingers over the bruises on your hips, over your lips. You slip your hand down your pants, but you don’t know how to get off without Dean-- He never showed you. Useless doll-boy. Empty. You fuck around for a bit, imagining Dean’s hand around your cock instead, trying to think of how he does it, what he says, but you could never recreate Dean in all his skill. 

You push your jeans down (hand-me-downs, worn by Dean years ago), you soak your fingers in as much spit as you can manage, and you push them inside yourself, imagining Dean watching. The cool tile is harsh against your skin, but the feeling of being filled (the feeling of being so desperate you have to resort to doing this in your school’s bathroom) scratches the itch well enough. You don’t even come. You don’t have to. 

You think about calling Dean. Asking him to pick you up early. It makes you feel pathetic enough to tip into the suicidal.

You wash your hands three times over.

When Dean hears about your counselor visit, he says he’ll keep it from Dad. He runs his fingers along your arms, holds your hand, kisses your cheek. And it’s not a gentleness cradled in the lack of violence, but despite his capability of it, a negative-space sort of gentleness. You wade in it until you feel like you’re drowning. 

You leave a mark of your own right under his jaw, giggle, and say he can blame it on some girl. And for a second, you feel small again in his arms. It’s the best feeling in the world.

\--

You always imagined seventeen being different. The cusp of adulthood, full of excitement and milestones. Your dad keeps asking when you’re gonna get a girlfriend, keeps telling Dean to stop having so many. All you’re worried about is your growing body. You don’t feel small anymore, so you stop eating until your ribs start showing again. 

Spider-leg hairs have grown all over you, gone from peach-fuzz to thick, coarse objects of disgust, and Dean says he doesn’t mind, Dean still fucks you whenever he wants, still leaves marks all over you, but you start shaving anyway. And the scars on your arms have faded (he doesn’t talk about the ones on your legs). The summer leaves freckles on your shoulders and he kisses every single one.

Dean starts picking you up early from school at least once a week, taking you to see a movie, parking behind the building so he can fuck you in the backseat. He says you’re old enough for things like that, things normal teens do. 

You wish you weren’t a teenager. You wish you were eleven with your lips wrapped around Dean’s fingers. You wish you were twelve hearing about blowjobs for the first time. All you can feel now is a simmering restlessness clawing at you, directed at everyone and everything except for Dean.

All you can feel is dirt and filth under your fingernails. You feel gross, disgusting, somewhere between a sickly green and a rotting purple. You don’t know how much you’d do for Dean if he asked. All that comes to mind is  _ no, no, no. _ No way in hell you’re letting Dean inside you again. Not like this. You’ll have to scrub your skin with steel wool before you’re clean enough.

Of course, Dean doesn’t understand that, pushes into you despite your pushing him away, says he doesn’t care about how dirty you get, he’ll always make it worse. And you’re crying with his face pressed into the crook of your neck. He asks if he’s hurting you, and you shake your head. 

He says you’ll always be his baby, no matter how old you get. And he smells like whiskey, and sweat, and the front seat of the Impala. He smells like shame and compulsion. It feels familiar. It feels awful. You can’t remember the first time you hurt yourself but you know it’s tied directly to Dean, and his mouth, and his sharp whiskey-teeth.

He still whispers in your ear while he fucks you, while you cry. There’s no way to unglue yourself from love. There’s no way to take out the stitches that attach your ugly wounds to Dean. College be damned-- this is your future. This is all you'll ever be. 

\--

You get a scholarship from Stanford at eighteen. You don't go.

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii this fic felt a lot different to write idk if that comes across. also i had just read Gutless (link in my bookmarks) and it was still on my mind so there's a lot of things that leaked over from that. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed!! please do leave kudos n comments!! <3


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